Phantom climbs are shattered fast,
in ringing steel, to swift surpass,
the transient horse, so ghoulish grey,
its galloping innards in ruby spray.
Not fit to ride, this wretched steed,
what spastic pays no bridle heed.
So set to blade the filthy beast,
and burn its bones, unfit to feast.
What need have we with this carcass.
This blighted, necrotic mare.
The fire is itself,
the runner and the stair.
/////Logos Literature 
Bravo. Fit for a frame. You continue to push beyond and exhibit spotless exceptionalism. I am very glad to have accompanied you for as long as I have; if nothing else, it dispels the feeling that I would surely one day feel of having to “catch up” to such impressive productions.
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Thank you. I probably would not have compelled myself to continue writing poetry with regularity had you not suggested as much, prose fiction being my more familiar domain.
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